in the doorway. Then, looking nervous as shit, she takes a deep breath, steps over the threshold into my room, and starts wandering around. There are clothes and sketches all over the floor, the dresser, and the bed. She assesses each one closely, and I squirm uncomfortably as I take a shirt out of my dresser.
She stops at my bed and eyes the drawing I made back in high school of Lexi wearing nothing but her underwear and bra. I wonder what she’s thinking. If she’s offended? Do I care if she is?
Her head tips to the side as she reaches out to pick it up, and I open my mouth to tell her not to touch it because it feels wrong somehow, seeing Lexi’s picture in another girl’s hand. But then she decides against it, pulling her hand away.
She glances over her shoulder at me. “She’s pretty.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, and then slip my shirt over my head. “Yeah, she was.”
Her lips part a little when I say
was
, which I didn’t mean to say. In fact, I wish I could take it back. Luckily, Nova seems to be understanding and she steps up to my wall and starts studying a drawing I made of vines weaving around a bag of Skittles. I made it when I decided to take a hit of acid, because weed wasn’t doing anything for the internal agony. It turned out to be a very bad idea and did nothing for numbing my emotions, instead bringing out a very dark, almost insane side of me.
“This one’s interesting,” she muses, glancing at me. “What were you thinking when you drew it?”
I reach for a pair of jeans in the top drawer of the banged-up dresser that only has two of the four drawers. “Honestly, I don’t remember.” I unfold the jeans and transfer my weight to one leg so I can slip them on. “I think it had something to do with the fact that I’d smoked a lot of weed and did… other stuff, and then fell in a rosebush that day and went home and ate some Skittles.”
She laughs, looking bewildered, and I find myself smiling, too. “Do you do that a lot?”
“What? Fall into rosebushes? Or eat Skittles?” I ask, zipping up my jeans.
She sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth, and I catch her gaze flicking to my hands as I button up my jeans, which makes me wonder what she’s thinking about. “No, do you smoke weed a lot? I’m just curious.”
The light mood she created plummets, and I feel deflated. “Yeah,” I say truthfully, knowing it’s probably going to scare her off.
She glances around at some of the drawings, then holding her dress in place, she crouches down to get a closer look at one. “Yeah, so do Dylan and Tristan, but you probably know that since you live with them.”
I grab my wallet off the dresser. “Yeah, I guess.”
I’m not sure what Dylan’s and Tristan’s reasons are for smoking an abundance of weed; whether Tristan does it just because or if it’s how he deals with the death of his sister, Ryder. All I know is that I do it to deaden the pain inside me. It was something I discovered after countless therapy sessions, prescriptions, and trying to draw my way through my inner turmoil. Nothing was working, and one day, while I was hanging out with the only friend I had left, he took out a joint. I’d never tried pot before—never cared to. But then I realized that I really didn’t have anything to care about anymore, so I tried it, and when it alleviated the heaviness in my body and clouded the dark thoughts inside my head, I knew it was the only way I was going to survive. I’ve been doing it pretty much every day for nine months now, and it’s part of life for me. Without it, acceptance of what my life really is—what I’ve become—would be unbearable.
Nova stands back up, smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress. When she looks at me, her eyes are enormous and crammed with worry. The abruptness of her shift in demeanor throws me off balance.
“So everyone is pretty determined to go to that concert in Fairfield,” she says, slipping her fingers
She stops at my bed and eyes the drawing I made back in high school of Lexi wearing nothing but her underwear and bra. I wonder what she’s thinking. If she’s offended? Do I care if she is?
Her head tips to the side as she reaches out to pick it up, and I open my mouth to tell her not to touch it because it feels wrong somehow, seeing Lexi’s picture in another girl’s hand. But then she decides against it, pulling her hand away.
She glances over her shoulder at me. “She’s pretty.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, and then slip my shirt over my head. “Yeah, she was.”
Her lips part a little when I say
was
, which I didn’t mean to say. In fact, I wish I could take it back. Luckily, Nova seems to be understanding and she steps up to my wall and starts studying a drawing I made of vines weaving around a bag of Skittles. I made it when I decided to take a hit of acid, because weed wasn’t doing anything for the internal agony. It turned out to be a very bad idea and did nothing for numbing my emotions, instead bringing out a very dark, almost insane side of me.
“This one’s interesting,” she muses, glancing at me. “What were you thinking when you drew it?”
I reach for a pair of jeans in the top drawer of the banged-up dresser that only has two of the four drawers. “Honestly, I don’t remember.” I unfold the jeans and transfer my weight to one leg so I can slip them on. “I think it had something to do with the fact that I’d smoked a lot of weed and did… other stuff, and then fell in a rosebush that day and went home and ate some Skittles.”
She laughs, looking bewildered, and I find myself smiling, too. “Do you do that a lot?”
“What? Fall into rosebushes? Or eat Skittles?” I ask, zipping up my jeans.
She sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth, and I catch her gaze flicking to my hands as I button up my jeans, which makes me wonder what she’s thinking about. “No, do you smoke weed a lot? I’m just curious.”
The light mood she created plummets, and I feel deflated. “Yeah,” I say truthfully, knowing it’s probably going to scare her off.
She glances around at some of the drawings, then holding her dress in place, she crouches down to get a closer look at one. “Yeah, so do Dylan and Tristan, but you probably know that since you live with them.”
I grab my wallet off the dresser. “Yeah, I guess.”
I’m not sure what Dylan’s and Tristan’s reasons are for smoking an abundance of weed; whether Tristan does it just because or if it’s how he deals with the death of his sister, Ryder. All I know is that I do it to deaden the pain inside me. It was something I discovered after countless therapy sessions, prescriptions, and trying to draw my way through my inner turmoil. Nothing was working, and one day, while I was hanging out with the only friend I had left, he took out a joint. I’d never tried pot before—never cared to. But then I realized that I really didn’t have anything to care about anymore, so I tried it, and when it alleviated the heaviness in my body and clouded the dark thoughts inside my head, I knew it was the only way I was going to survive. I’ve been doing it pretty much every day for nine months now, and it’s part of life for me. Without it, acceptance of what my life really is—what I’ve become—would be unbearable.
Nova stands back up, smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress. When she looks at me, her eyes are enormous and crammed with worry. The abruptness of her shift in demeanor throws me off balance.
“So everyone is pretty determined to go to that concert in Fairfield,” she says, slipping her fingers
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